The Visitor, page 37
She backed onto the driveway and hit the button to close the door again. Twisted in her seat and saw the police cruiser parked in her way. She left the motor running and got out and walked down toward it. The cop was watching her. He buzzed the window open.
‘I’m going to the store,’ she said.
The guy looked at her for a second, like this was outside the range of permissible scenarios.
‘How long you going to be gone?’ he asked.
She shrugged.
‘Half-hour, an hour,’ she said.
‘The store?’ he said.
She nodded. ‘I need some things.’
He stared some more, and arrived at a decision.
‘OK, but I wait here,’ he said. ‘We’re watching the house, not you personally. Domicile-based crimes, that’s what we do.’
She nodded again. ‘That’s fine. Nobody’s going to grab me at the store.’
The cop nodded back. Said nothing. He started his engine and backed up the slope far enough that she could manoeuvre out past him. He watched her roll away down the hill, and then he eased back into position.
You see the garage door open, you see the car come out, you see the door close again. You see her stop on her driveway, and you see her get out. You watch the conversation through the Crown Vic’s window. You see the cop back up, you see her reverse out onto the roadway. The cop moves back into position, she takes off down the hill. You smile to yourself and ease backward under the cover of the rocks. You stand up. You go to work.
She made the left at the bottom of her hill, and then the right onto the through road toward the city of Portland. It was cold. Another week of falling temperatures, and it would be snowing. Then her choice of automobile would start to look a little silly. Everybody else had big four-wheel drives, either Jeeps or pickup trucks. She had gone for a swoopy low-slung sedan, about four times longer than it was high. Gold paint, chrome wheels, butter-soft tan leather inside. It looked like a million dollars, but it was front-wheel drive only, no traction control. Ground clearance was enough for a decent-sized snowball and not much more. The rest of the winter, she’d be walking or begging rides from her neighbours.
But it was smooth and quiet and it rode like a dream. She drove the two miles west and slowed for the left into the shopping centre. Waited for an oncoming truck to labour past and swooped into the lot. Turned tight and drove around behind the right-hand arm of stores and parked up alone in the overspill lane. Pulled the key and dropped it in her bag. Got out and walked through the cold toward the supermarket.
It was warmer inside. She took a cart and walked every aisle, using time. There was no system in her shopping. She just looked at everything and took what she figured she was out of. Which was not very much, because the market didn’t sell the things she was really interested in. No music books, no garden plants. She ended up with little enough in the cart to get her into the express line at the checkout.
The girl put it all into one paper sack and she paid cash for it and walked out with the sack cradled in her arms. Turned right on the narrow sidewalk and window-shopped her way along the row. Her breath hung in the air. She stopped outside the hardware store. It was an old-fashioned place. It carried a little bit of everything. She had shopped there before, for sacks of bonemeal and ericaceous fertilizer to help her azaleas.
She juggled the grocery sack into one arm and pulled the door. A bell rang. There was an old guy in a brown coat at the register. He nodded a greeting. She moved forward into the crowded aisles. Walked past the tools and the nails and found the decorating section. There were rolls of cheap wallpaper and packets of paste. Paintbrushes and paint rollers. And cans of paint. A display as tall as she was. Colour charts were held in racks clipped to the shelves. She put her groceries on the floor and took a chart from a rack and opened it up. It was banded into colours like a huge rainbow. A big variety of shades.
‘Help you, miss?’ a voice said.
It was the old guy. He’d crept up behind her, helpful and anxious for a sale.
‘Does this stuff mix with water?’ she asked.
The old guy nodded.
‘They call it latex,’ he said. ‘But that just means water-based. You can thin it with water, clean the roller with water.’
‘I want a dark green,’ she said.
She pointed at the chart.
‘Maybe like this olive,’ she said.
‘The avocado is attractive,’ the old guy said.
‘Too light,’ she said.
‘You going to thin it with water?’ he asked.
She nodded. ‘I guess.’
‘That’ll make it lighter still.’
‘I think I’ll take the olive,’ she said. ‘I want it to look kind of military.’
‘OK,’ the old guy said. ‘How much?’
‘One can,’ she said. ‘A gallon.’
‘Won’t go far,’ he said. ‘Although if you thin it, that’ll help.’
He carried it back to the register for her and rang up the sale. She paid cash and he put it in a bag with a free wooden stirring stick. The store’s name was printed off-centre on the stick.
‘Thank you,’ she said.
She carried the grocery sack in one hand and the hardware bag in the other. Walked along the row of stores. It was cold. She looked up and checked the sky. It was blackening with clouds. They were scurrying in from the west. She looped around behind the last store. Hurried to her car. Dumped her bags on the back seat and climbed in and slammed her door and started the engine.
The cop was cold, which kept his attention focused. Summertime, sitting and doing nothing could make him sleepy, but there was no chance of that with the temperature as low as it was now. So he saw the approaching figure when it was still about a hundred yards away down the hill. The crest of the slope meant he saw the head first, then the shoulders, then the chest. The figure was walking purposefully toward him, rising up over the foreshortened horizon, revealing more and more of itself, getting bigger. The head was grey, thick hair neatly trimmed and brushed. The shoulders were dressed in Army uniform. Eagles on the shoulderboards, eagles through the lapels, a colonel. A clerical collar where the shirt and tie should be. A padre. A military chaplain, approaching fast up the sidewalk. His face bobbed up and down with every stride. The white band of the collar moved below it. The guy was walking quickly. Practically marching.
He stopped suddenly a yard from the cop’s right headlight. Just stood on the sidewalk with his neck craned, looking up at Scimeca’s house. The cop buzzed the passenger window down. He didn’t know what to say. Some local citizen, he’d call sir, step this way, with enough tone in there to cancel out the sir. But this was a padre and a bird colonel. Practically a gentleman.
‘Excuse me?’ he called.
The colonel looked around and stepped the length of the fender. Bent down. He was tall. He put one hand on the Crown Vic’s roof and the other on the door. Ducked his head and looked straight in through the open window.
‘Officer,’ he said.
‘Help you?’ the cop asked.
‘I’m here to visit with the lady of the house,’ the padre said.
‘She’s not home, temporarily,’ the cop said. ‘And we’ve got a situation here.’
‘A situation?’
‘She’s under guard. Can’t tell you why. But I’m going to have to ask you to step inside the car and show me some ID.’
The colonel hesitated for a second, like he was confused. Then he straightened up and opened the passenger door. Folded himself into the seat and put his hand inside his jacket. Came out with a wallet. Flipped it open and pulled a worn military ID. Passed it across to the cop. The cop read it over and checked the photograph against the face next to him. Handed it back and nodded.
‘OK, Colonel,’ he said. ‘You can wait in here with me, if you like. I guess it’s cold out there.’
‘It sure is,’ the colonel said, although the cop noticed he was sweating lightly. Probably from the fast walk up the hill, he figured.
‘I’m not getting anyplace,’ Harper said.
The plane was on descent. Reacher could feel it in his ears. And he could feel abrupt turns. The pilot was military, so he was using the rudder. Civilian pilots avoid using the rudder. Using the rudder makes the plane slew, like a car skids. Passengers don’t like the feeling. So civilian pilots turn by juicing the engines on one side and backing off on the others. Then the plane comes around smoothly. But military pilots don’t care about their passengers’ comfort. It’s not like they’ve bought tickets.
‘Remember Poulton’s report from Spokane?’ he said.
‘What about it?’
‘That’s the key. Something big and obvious.’
She made the left off the main road and the right into her street. The cop was back in the way again. Somebody was in the front seat next to him. She stopped on the crown of the road, ready to turn in, hoping he’d take the hint and move, but he just opened his door and got out, like he needed to talk to her. He walked across, stiff from sitting, and placed his hand on the roof of her car and bent down. She opened her window and he peered in and glanced at the shopping on the back seat.
‘Get what you need?’ he asked.
She nodded.
‘No problems?’
She shook her head.
‘There’s a guy here to see you,’ he said. ‘A padre, from the Army.’
‘The guy in your car?’ she said, like she had to say something, although it was pretty obvious. She could see the collar.
‘Colonel somebody,’ the cop said. ‘His ID is OK.’
‘Get rid of him,’ she said.
The cop was startled.
‘He’s all the way from DC,’ he said. ‘His ID says he’s based there.’
‘I don’t care where he’s based. I don’t want to see him.’
The cop said nothing. Just glanced back over his shoulder. The colonel was getting out of the car. Easing up to his full height on the sidewalk. Walking over. Scimeca left her motor running and opened her door. Slid out and stood up and watched him coming, pulling her jacket tight around her in the cold.
‘Rita Scimeca?’ the padre asked, when he was close enough.
‘What do you want?’
‘I’m here to see if you’re OK.’
‘OK?’ she repeated.
‘With your recovery,’ he said. ‘After your problems.’
‘My problems?’
‘After the assault.’
‘And if I’m not OK?’
‘Then maybe I can help you.’
His voice was warm and low and rich. Infinitely believable. A church voice.
‘The Army send you?’ she asked. ‘Is this official?’
He shook his head.
‘I’m afraid not,’ he said. ‘I’ve argued it with them many times.’
She nodded. ‘If they offer counselling, they’re admitting liability.’
‘That’s their view,’ the colonel said. ‘Regrettably. So this is a private mission. I’m acting against strict orders, in secret. But it’s a matter of conscience, isn’t it?’
Scimeca glanced away.
‘Why me in particular?’ she asked. ‘There were a lot of us.’
‘You’re my fifth,’ he said. ‘I started with the ones who are obviously living alone. I thought that’s where my help might be needed most. I’ve been all over the place. Some fruitful trips, some wasted trips. I try not to force myself on people. But I feel I have to try.’
She was silent for a moment. Very cold.
‘Well, you’ve wasted another trip, I’m afraid,’ she said. ‘I decline your offer. I don’t want your help.’
The colonel was not surprised, not unsurprised. ‘Are you sure?’
She nodded.
‘Totally sure,’ she said.
‘Really? Please think about it. I came a long way.’
She didn’t answer. Just glanced at the cop, impatiently. He shuffled his feet, calling the colonel’s attention his way.
‘Asked and answered,’ he said, like a lawyer.
There was silence in the street. Just the beat of Scimeca’s motor idling, the drift of exhaust, a sharp chemical tang in the fall air.
‘I’m going to have to ask you to leave now, sir,’ the cop said. ‘We’ve got a situation here.’
The colonel was still for a long moment. Then he nodded.
‘The offer is always open,’ he said. ‘I could come back, anytime.’
He turned abruptly and walked back down the hill, moving fast. The slope swallowed him up, legs, back, head. Scimeca watched him below the horizon and slid back into her car. The cop nodded to himself and tapped twice on the roof.
‘Nice car,’ he said, irrelevantly.
She said nothing.
‘Right,’ the cop said.
He walked back to his cruiser. Reversed it up the hill with his door hanging open. She turned into her driveway. Pushed the button on the remote and the garage door rumbled upward. She drove inside and pushed the button again. Saw the cop moving back into position before the door came down and left her in darkness.
She opened her door and the dome light clicked on. She pulled the little lever at her side and popped the trunk. Got out of the car and took her bags from the back seat and carried them through to the basement. Carried them up the stairs to the hallway and through to the kitchen. Placed them side by side on the countertop and sat down on a stool to wait.
It’s a low-slung car, so although the trunk is long enough and wide enough, it’s not very tall. So you’re lying on your side, cramped. Your legs are drawn up, like a fetal position. Getting in was no problem. She left the car unlocked, just like you told her to. You watched her walk away to the store, and then you just stepped over and opened the driver’s door and found the lever and popped the trunk. Closed the door again and walked around and lifted the lid. Nothing to it. Nobody was watching. You sort of rolled inside and pulled the lid closed on top of you. It was easy. There were reinforcing members on the underside. Easy to grasp.
It’s a long wait in there. But then you feel her get back in and you hear the engine start. You feel a growing patch of heat under your thigh where the exhaust runs under the trunk floor. It’s not a comfortable ride. You bounce around a little. You follow the turns in your mind and you know when she arrives back at her place. You hear the cop talking. There’s a problem. Then you hear some idiot padre, pleading. You tense up in there. You start to panic. What the hell is going on? What if she asks him in? But she gets rid of him. You hear the ice in her voice. You smile in the dark and open and close your hands in triumph. You hear it when she drives into the garage. The acoustic changes. The engine goes louder. You hear the exhaust beating against the walls and the floor. Then she shuts it down and it goes very quiet.
She remembers to pop the trunk. You knew she would, because you told her not to forget. Then you hear her footsteps moving away and you hear the basement door open and close. You ease the trunk lid upward and you climb out. You stand and stretch in the dark. Rub your thigh where the heat has hurt it. Then you move around to the front of the car. You pull your gloves on tight and you sit down on the fender and you wait.
TWENTY-NINE
The plane landed at Portland International like any other Boeing, but it stopped rolling some way short of the terminal and waited on a distant apron. A pickup with a staircase bolted to the load bed came slowly out to meet it. The pickup was followed by a minivan. Both vehicles were shiny clean and painted in Boeing’s corporate colours. The flight crew stayed on board to analyse computer data. The minivan took Reacher and Harper around to the arrivals lane, where the taxis waited. Head of the line was a battered Caprice with a checkerboard stripe down the side. The driver wasn’t local. He needed to check his map to find the road east toward the tiny village on the slopes of Mount Hood.
She was in the house all of five minutes, and then the doorbell went. The cop was back. She came out of the kitchen and walked the length of the hallway and unlocked the door. Opened it up. He was standing there on the porch, not saying anything, trying to communicate his request with the rueful expression on his face.
‘Hi,’ she said.
Then she just looked at him. Didn’t smile or anything.
‘Hi,’ he said back.
She waited. She was going to make him say it anyway. It was nothing to be embarrassed about.
‘Guess what?’ he said.
‘What?’
‘Can I use the powder room?’
Cold air was swirling in around her legs. She could feel it striking through her jeans.
‘Of course,’ she said.
She closed the door behind him, to keep some warmth in. Waited next to it, while he disappeared and then came back again.
‘Nice and warm in here,’ he said.
She nodded, although it wasn’t really true. She kept the house as cold as she could stand it. For the piano tone. So the wood didn’t dry out.
‘Cold out there in the car,’ he said.
She nodded again.
‘Run the motor,’ she said. ‘Get the heater going.’
He shook his head. ‘Not allowed. Can’t idle the engine. Some pollution thing.’
‘So take off for a spell,’ she said. ‘Drive around, get warm. I’ll be OK here.’
Clearly it wasn’t the invitation he was looking for, but he thought about it. Then he shook his head again.
‘They’d take my badge,’ he said. ‘I’ve got to stay here.’
She said nothing.
‘Sorry to bother you with that padre,’ he said, making the point he’d intervened, and gotten rid of him.
She nodded.
‘I’ll bring you some hot coffee,’ she said. ‘Five minutes, OK?’
He looked pleased. A shy smile.
‘Then I’ll need the powder room again,’ he said. ‘Goes right through me.’
‘Whenever,’ she said.
She closed the door on him and went back to the kitchen and set her coffee machine going. Waited on the stool next to the shopping bags until it was done. She found the biggest mug she owned and poured the coffee. Added cream from the refrigerator and sugar from the cupboard. He looked like a cream-and-sugar guy, young, a little fat. She carried the mug outside and walked down the path. Steam swirled off the coffee and hung in a thin horizontal band all the way to the sidewalk. She tapped on his window and he turned and smiled and buzzed the glass down. He took the cup, awkwardly, two-handed.
